Idle Hands
by Maiden of the Moon
Summary: A playful smirk formed on his mouth— the mouth that was creeping towards her own. “Idle hands are the devil’s plaything. . .” “B— but, you’re an angel. . .” “An angel of what. . . ?” That was the question. [LRxC DARK]


_Disclaimer: I do own a Rosette and Chrono. . . but they're in the forms of a pillow and plushie, respectively._

_Author's Note: I've wanted to do a fic related to 'Questions' for a while, now. . . dunno why. But "because I'm sick and twisted" is a reason that leaps instantly to mind. ;) _

Nah, I just had a lot of fun with 'Questions' and wanted to do more like it.

_Anyway, speaking of 'Questions,' I had a zillion and one people ask me what Chrono actually was in that fic and where 'that place far, far away' was. I have many theories and ideas about that, but would honestly prefer leaving it up to your imaginations. However, if you really want to know (and this relates to this fic, too), e-mail me and I'll be happy to start a discussion with you. (But please don't just leave me a link to your bio. I don't have the time to find everyone's address on their accounts. There are more of you than me, you know?) _

_Finally, a few more quick notes about fics. I know that I haven't updated DT in a while, and I'm very sorry about that. But things at my house have not been all that happy lately, and because of that writing humor would be a bit difficult for me. I could do it, but it just wouldn't be the same. So I'm writing what I feel like writing, which includes fics like Statutory, Sunsets, Ticks of the Clock, and other one shots. (Like this one, for example. XD) Please be patient with me. . . and thank you for your patience so far. _

_That said, please enjoy this fic! XD _

**WARNINGS: . . . yeah. See 'Questions'. Also, please note that this does NOT go in chronological (Get it? Chrono— chronological? Mwahaha— a pun! XD Yeah, I'm stupid. . . heehee.) order. Events are jumping all over the place in this fic. . . but there are little clues which should give you the basic idea of when everything happens. Woo!**

**X **

X

X

I found him. And he is mine.

He was waiting for me in the darkness; simply waiting. Waiting. Always there, watching me with eyes as bright as fire, a smile as soft as cotton. Waiting, waiting, waiting. . . biding away the time. Tick, tick, tick. A beat that matched my heart: thump, thump, thump.

I found him. And he is mine.

I called for him, one day. I did. . . all by myself. I'm a big girl. And big girls can do things like that; call to that which is ours. Summon the shadows that flit from room to room; grab the ghosts that haunt the corners.

I found him. And he is mine.

He's always with me, now. I can feel him wherever I go, like a constant pressure on my chest. A pressure. . . a pressure that's drowning me, suffocating me, killing me; that sensation of his closeness. Like invisible hands wrapped around my heart, hands ready to squeeze the life out of my body at a moment's notice. At his fleeting whim. But won't.

No, he won't.

Because I found him. I called him. I saved him.

And he is mine.

**X **

X

X

**_IDLE HANDS_**

**X **

X

X

One swift line. . . shallow, yet deep. The red, the red, the red—an unrivaled aphrodisiac; shivers racing down her spine. And a smile. . . a small smile slid onto her face; hidden by the braids which covered her bruises.

"What are you doing, Master?"

Glancing up, she allowed her smile to grow; watching the thick liquid ooze from her pale wrists. What boredom, what fun, what purpose. . . "Working," the child informed quietly, blue eyes crinkled in delight. Such beautiful patterns the droplets made on the yellowing sheets. . . the brightness of the hue accenting the dull brown woodwork of the dusty attic bedroom. "The circles. . . the stars. They've almost worn off the floor and walls. I need to put them back on, angel, or else you'll go away."

The angel did not respond, only bowed his head as he moved forward; long violet hair caressing his naked body. "But Master," he murmured, kneeling before her and carefully taking her hand in his own, tongue darting out to taste her essence, "why these shapes?" A longing glimmer began to shine in his half-lidded eyes, tracing the crosses without actually touching her flesh.

"I've read of them," she answered softly, moving to lock gazes with his own. "They are. . . marks of God that appear on the wrists and feet. And sometimes even the head and side. I thought. . . that because you are here. . . perhaps I've been blessed, too."

". . ." An evasive leer tugged on his parted lips. "I come from a god," he breathed, leaning forward to caress her bare collar, covering it in butterfly kisses. The sunlight that streamed through the only window seemed to avoid his body, leaving the room around them black. "But not the God you think."

She sighed pleasurably, arching her back and lifting her scared wrists to him; hot redness spiraling down her arms. His legs wrapped around her own, her hips to his on top of the bed. "That doesn't matter to me," the girl insisted as the angel began to paint, skillfully swirling symbols and text on the clean canvas of her white body. Oh, how divine the red looked upon her skin—like berries on snow. "For no matter where you come from, you are my angel."

His hiss of desire echoed through the silence, ruby pools darkening and flashing as the contract glowed, renewed again and again and again— her scream of pain swallowed by his mouth. "Only yours, forever yours."

"Never leave—!" Choked tears streamed down her face as she tried to keep breathing; always forgetting how horrible it felt to have your Time ripped away and devoured. But the pain— in its own way— was strangely pleasant, filling her with a resonating tingle. A sting so much sweeter than the realities of life. . . "Never—!"

"I'll never." The patterns on the wall and ceiling began to shimmer; candles in the corners bursting into life. Their flames slithered and danced like snakes in her eyes. . .

"Say. . ." Panting. "S— say that. . ." Harsh and heavy; she vomited up a redness identical to that which had been used to draw upon her breasts and stomach—those invisible hands having tightened a bit. Just a bit. . . "Say that you l—love me. . ."

He smiled, purring; locking her hands above her head, his semi-translucent body feeling slightly more solid. "I love you."

**X **

X

X

She was dead. And yet, alive.

I suppose that's why I was first drawn to her, answered her subconscious scream. Such a paradox she was in that medical room, watched by those men with chains; a curiosity, a rarity, a toy. But as soon as those fearless blue eyes fell upon me, I knew that wasn't all. She possessed something else that I craved. . . a lightness to her. A tainted purity. There was a charming beauty within her spirit, one that I fully enjoyed watching blossom: endless days and nights siting beside her in the darkness of her room, providing the ink for her gorgeous red paintings. Kittens, rabbits, squirrels. . . other such rodents. Easily caught and presented. Oh, the joy she expressed at the gifts! Such unique colors, every hue she'd ever wanted— each shade slightly different from the next. Only she knew the different.

She was dead. And yet, alive.

Her fingers were. . . are. . . so skilled, so warm— soundlessly sweeping the redness over her walls and ceiling; creating. Birthing pieces of nightmarishly gorgeous quality. But they never do last. . . They are merely fantastic for a day before vanishing; wiped clean by the tears and sweat and saliva produced when her parents find said masterpieces. The marks remain on her skin for days, works of art in and of themselves. And then she expresses her hurt inside my arms; with the knife she keeps hidden in her Bible; by plotting out her plans. Through restlessness.

She was dead. And yet, alive.

She still is, in a way—a way different then that of the silent, solemn child who's call I answered. Now it is my fault for her fatal fate, devouring pieces of her life in exchange for my soul. However. . . without me, she has no one. Without me, she _is_ no one. Without me, there is no **her**. And so, by that token. . . though she was—is— in a way, dead. . .

My soul is keeping her alive.

**X **

**X**

**X**

"Angel. . . are you real?"

He cast her a noiseless sideways glance, taking in her silhouette—long blonde locks rustling in the moonlit breeze, tracing patterns on her thighs with sharp fingernails. Nothing was said. And then she laughed, wiping away the splattered, metallic remnants her parents had called forth upon her cheeks. "S—sorry," the child apologized; her giggles slowly turning into coughs, then to wheezing little gasps for air. "But sometimes I. . . I wonder. . ." Pausing, the girl began tracing tiny crosses on her wrists and over her heart and head. "It hurts, you know. Here. . . and here. . . and here. . . and here."

Her crosses began to fall lower and lower on her body, until they were indicating her most private areas. A pensive frown marred her features as she turned to look at him. "Why?" she asked, voice breaking; tearing nervously at her own flesh. "Why does it hurt there so much when you're around?"

The angel did not move for a moment, only kept her gaze. But soon he had slid from his seat beside her on the porch bench to a crouching position between her legs, his chin upon her white nightdress. "It's called lust," he informed her quietly; lightly tracing circles and stars on her kneecaps. No reason; just boredom.

It made her abdomen flame.

"Wh— why. . . ?" she moaned, eyes squeezing shut as his fingers slid closer and closer to the ache; that ache she found even more enjoyable then the discovery of new bruises or the creation of fresh scabs. "Why are y— you. . . doing that. . . ?"

A playful smirk formed on his mouth—the mouth that was creeping towards her own. "Idle hands are the devil's plaything. . ."

She grunted and gasped, curling in around his hand. "B— but, you're an angel. . ."

He did not deny that. "An angel of what. . . ?"

That was the question.

**X **

**X**

**X**

I had a brother.

His name was Joshua. I loved him very much. We used to play together, in the decorative ponds our parents enjoyed building in the backyard. There was so much to do—to see, to roam, to explore, to imagine—in those endless Michigan woods.

I had a brother.

But though the sky was our limit, it was not the only one. My brother was. . . different. He was always sick. Always, always ill. He needed medicine and doctors and nurses and care and attention. He needed it all. He needed it all to get better. But he never did.

I had a brother.

He was always so pale, my brother. Shivering and clammy—like a solid ghost. Sometimes he couldn't breathe or eat. Tubes would have to help him. Mother would have to help him. Mother would always have to help him. Always help him. . . always him. . . always.

I had a brother.

Why was it always him? Why? I got sick, too—but I never got her attention. I never got the endless worry or the prayers or the tears. I only ever got told to go to bed and to stop complaining. I got told to think about how my poor brother must feel: 'at least YOU aren't always suffering.' 'At least YOU aren't in constant pain.' And then they'd look at me like it was my fault. Like it was my fault. . . always. Always. I could tell. Mother's eyes. . .

I had a brother.

But I got mad one night. I got mad at mother; I got mad at father. I got mad at Joshua. I was crying and screaming but quite and calm and restless and moving without thought inside the unfamiliar world I knew so well. My mind was swirling, fingers itching. . . Everyone believed that I was the reason behind my brother's slow death. . . Everyone but me. I didn't— I didn't. So I had to convince myself.

I had a brother.

I don't anymore.

**X **

**X**

**X**

Her soft humming echoed through the locked room; white, white, white. With soft fabric on the walls. . . how pretty, how pretty. How gorgeous a splash of red would look upon them. He watched her for a moment, bopping her head to a simple tune

"It's been a while, Master."

No response.

How typical.

And so he smiled. "What are you singing, Master?"

"?" She faltered, as if just noticing the changeless boy's presence, shooting him an amused glance from over her shoulder. "Why, Happy Birthday, of course. Do you know how old I am today?"

He shook his head, lowering himself beside her; examining her new jacket. She seemed to like it— claimed it was like giving yourself a hug. "No."

A chortle. "Oh, well, that's too bad. I was hoping you would. . . I seem to have forgotten. How silly of me!"

"Silly. . . ?" The angel offered her a pained grin, slowly wrapping his arms and wings around her from behind. The tickling flutter of the scales and feathers appeared to pacify her. . . though she didn't seem to have realized how much she'd wanted him there. How long had they been apart? How long had it been since _THEN_. . . ? "Do you want to be free, Master. . . ?" he inquired tenderly; her heart giving a painful squeeze. Streaks of crimson shot from her lips and splattered on the pale ground. The teenager whimpered, wishing to spread the tint everywhere. "Do you wish for me to save you?"

". . ." She considered for a moment, watching the puddles of redness glimmer in the harsh, bright lights of the small room. Sparkle, sparkle, sparkle. . . like the stars. She could see them again, if she said yes. The moon, too. Would she like to see them again. . . ?

". . . No," the young woman finally whispered, clouded eyes closing; sliding down to press her cheek to the floor. The angel stiffened. "No, I like it here. It's quiet. And painless. I. . . like it like that." Her wrists throbbed; ghost of the original hurt. A memory.

Reminder.

He frowned. "There can be no pain when there's nothing there, Master."

So true. . . A hacking snort of semi-amusement echoed. "There is still pain when you're around, angel. Pain in my heart and my mind. . . and _there_. . . old scars; old days. Things I'd rather weren't there."

". . . you don't want me here." It wasn't a question.

Sitting up— her hair all matted and her skin thoroughly smudged— she beamed. "My hands aren't idle anymore."

He didn't say anything; only stared at her with strange emotions in his dark orbs. Dark, endless, fiery orbs that contained everything and nothing. They chose to remain that way for a minute, both wishing to say things they knew shouldn't be voiced—

And then he vanished.

He didn't return.

**X **

X

X

I found him. And he is mine.

The discovery happened a long time ago, back before I could speak. Before I was born, even. Yes, I could always detect him: his heavy, consuming, overpowering presence. A presence which was a part of me. I could sense him in everything I said, did, thought— I still can. I know he's always here, watching me. I can hear him at nights, in my head. I can feel his fingers scurrying up and down my body. I know he's counting every beat of my heart, waiting. . . waiting. Tick, tick, tick—thump, thump, thump. We humans only have so many, after all. How many more until my own gives out?

I found him. And he is mine.

He remains that way, even now, although I can no longer him with my eyes. I am the one who called him, therefore he will always belong to me. The people here say that is not a problem, seeing as how he doesn't really exist. Perhaps not to them. But to me. . . to me he does. After all. . .

I found him. And he is mine.

He is my angel; he always will be. Whether or not he comes from Heaven or Hell, or if I found his picture in a library book, or if I only made him up. If you believe in something, it will come true. That's what Joshua told me. And I believe that. I believe in _him_. . . I believe.

I found him. And he is mine.

And though they tell me it was my own idle hands which made him, that he is not truly there, the fact remains the same.

I found him. And he is mine.

Forever.


End file.
